


Fear of Clowns

by Impala_Cherry_Trickster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Sam Winchester, Original Character(s), Plucky's, Police, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective John Winchester, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, temporarily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Cherry_Trickster/pseuds/Impala_Cherry_Trickster
Summary: Sam was left at Plucky's. John gets a call, something he never thought would happen to his son. Now, he has to deal with Sam's recovery. The younger Winchester, however, doesn't have any intention of telling his family what happened to him.





	1. Events

**Author's Note:**

> Probably be two or three chapters :)

‘Mr Winchester?’ John looked to the caller ID, not one that he recognised, and then put the phone back to his ear. Beside him, Dean looked across, just as interested in the call. They’d just finished a Hunt, and once they picked Sammy up, they’d be on the way to a new one.

‘Speaking?’ He asked, cruising down the tarmac steadily, the radio turned down to answer the call. Dean would probably complain once he’d hung up, stating that no phone call came before a Zeppelin song, but he would just have to deal with it.

‘My name’s Cindy, I work at Plucky’s. I’m speaking to you about your son, Sam.’ John bit back a sigh, knowing that the kid would get into trouble. Of course he would, Sam could never just listen to what John said. In all fairness, Sam was probably getting a little too old to stay at Plucky’s chain. At twelve, the kid was in need of actually coming on the Hunts, or staying in the motel. Not hanging out with other kids and playing in ball pits.

‘What’s he done now.’ John stated, not even bothering to phrase it as a question. Dean, ever concerned for his baby brother, leant towards him slightly. John was glad that the boy was so good at following orders, he really would make a good Hunter, and would successfully manage to look after Sam as well.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Winchester, there has been an incident. The… police are here, and I think you should come…’ It was only then that John noted the sadness, the way her voice hiccupped slightly as if she was trying to fight back tears.

‘Police?’ He snapped. Whatever Sam had done…

‘Mr Winchester, this is Detective Rosalind speaking. I’m afraid that we have a child-assault case on our hands. A man entered the establishment, armed, and took thirteen children hostage. Sam is one of them.’ John almost swerved into the oncoming lorry. He braked hard, sending Dean almost through the windscreen, and then turned his attention to what they had just said.

‘Hostage?’ He muttered, utterly confused, and the Detective on the other end sighed.

‘Four of the children have already been released with minimal injuries, but each one is progressively worse. All families are being informed.’ John didn’t need to hear more, didn’t need to know anything else. He told the Detective he would be there, hung up the phone, and slammed down onto the gas.

**

Sam rose his head, ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth and the uncomfortable bindings around his wrist. The man, a human, was utterly insane. He had hurt each of the children, raving about how beautiful they were, how he loved each one. He would stroke their hair, pet them, let his hands roam beneath the shirt. Sam had the unfortunate luck of being the only child able to fight back, and it had ended badly for him.

He’d got some good hits on the guy, a black eye now being sported, and two broken fingers that he had strapped. The man had a gun, and a knife that he was currently using to cut away number six’s shirt. The child, a girl that could be no older than seven, was crying. Eyes red-rimmed, shirt in tatters, and the guy seemed to be enjoying it. Hands roamed over the bare skin, the knife following, and small red beads of blood formed along the skin line.

Being sick wasn’t an option, but getting out of these bindings was nauseating. Every time he tried, he could feel them digging into the skin, blood dripping from them.

‘Let her go!’ He snarled, thrashing against the restraints. His father had taught him how to get out of these kind of bindings, but Sam didn’t have anything to help cut them, and his only hope was working them loose. The man, who was wearing a clown mask, as if it wasn’t ridiculous enough, dropped the girl. She sobbed harder, the other children huddled in the corner not moving, although they did look terrified.

Sam watched the Clown approach, brandishing the knife threateningly. He looked amused by Sam’s anger, and the young Hunter tried to recall what his father had taught him about diffusing situations like this. Distractions were important, as were getting everyone else out of harms way. A Hunter was better equipped to deal with these issues, and so Sam needed a way to get the children out.

‘Do what you want to me, but let them go. All of them.’ Sam bargained, trying to look threatening. He wished he had paid more attention when his brother had taught him how to fight someone who brandished a knife, how to convince people to let you out of chains. But Sam didn’t know how, just knew he had to get everyone else out. The man crouched down, traced the knife over his jeans, Dean’s jeans, cutting through the fabric. Dammit, Dad was going to be mad. They didn’t exactly have time to go to thrift stores.

‘That’s a tempting offer, little boy. D’you have a name?’ He was offended at the “little boy” statement, he was tall for his age. All gangly, as Dean loved to tell him.

‘Sam.’ He eventually said, still twisting his wrists to try and work free. The Clown removed the mask, and Sam studied the man. This would be important, in case he got away. Sam made a mental profile, like Bobby kept teaching him to do. Tall, around 6ft2. Dark hair, a few shades of black. Blue eyes, distinct chin, sharp jawline. Crows feet around the corners of his eyes, a lighter shade of eyebrows. Permanent wrinkles along his forehead, and a slightly chipped tooth when he smiled. He was probably around mid-forties, and he smelt of bourbon.

‘Let’s see, little Sammy, if we can have some fun.’ Sam opened his mouth to tell the man that he couldn’t call him that, only Dean could (even if Sam would never admit he enjoyed Dean calling him that), but he didn’t get the chance. Sam was hit hard, hard enough that his head twisted and he tasted blood, and then he lost consciousness.

**

John Winchester had never felt so powerless. He was stuck, the Police were the ones that were controlling the situation, but when the children came running out screaming about a boy that had saved them, John’s heart had gone cold. The Police were approaching the building, most were armed, and Sam was still in there.

‘Put the weapon down, and come out with your hands raised!’ The megaphone stated, people all around holding children and sobbing and clutching at them. But John and Dean were all alone, staring at the police tape and the sirens and the guns. And nobody was telling them what was happening.

‘Momma, he was so brave! But the man, he was hurting him!’ One of the small boys sobbed, and John watched Dean tense up. It was okay, they could fix this. Whatever injuries Sam had, they could fix it. The Police were shouting, flooding into the building, and John waited. Waited for what felt like hours, standing outside the stupid building.

Gunshots fired, screams ringing out from the crowd as they rang out. John was tempted to push past the barriers, to shove everyone out of the way and go and retrieve his youngest, but he didn’t. He waited, like everyone else, and watched. Silence ensued, everyone waiting to see who would come out of the building, and finally a Cop came running out.

It took a moment for John to recognise the stain on his shirt. Blood, thick red blood, and the Cop was moving to the tape.

‘WE NEED A PARAMEDIC!’ He shouted, and John felt his heart go cold as they ran into the building.

**

Sam didn’t want to talk. Sam wasn’t even entirely sure he wanted to be alive. He was sitting in a hospital bed, propped up with something soft under his butt. The nurse and Doctors had tried to talk to him, but Sam didn’t want to talk to them. Didn’t want to have to speak to them. Not now, not ever. The only comforting thing was the steady beeping from the monitor at the side of his bed. That, he could learn to get used to.

He looked out of the corner of his eye at the blinds, seeing his father and Dean moving towards the room, only to be stopped by a Doctor. John followed the man, as did Dean, and there was no doubt they were going to the office. Sam knew what they were going to say, that they were going to explain what happened, but Sam didn’t want to speak. Not now.

The door opened, a man in uniform stepping in, and Sam turned his head slightly. It was the man that had come in first, the one that had fired a shot that had killed the man. It had hit him in the chest, and from the amount of blood, Sam figured it had pierced the aorta. That was nice, that he was dead, but the body had slumped over Sam, who had been bent over the table. His wrists and ankles tied, he hadn't been able to get the body off, just had a corpse lying on top of him, lying in him.

‘My name is Detective Rosalind, I’m the lead on this Case. Is it alright if I have a seat?’ Sam stared at him for a while, taking in the blood-stained uniform and the gun sitting at his belt. He eventually looked to the chair, gave a brief nod, and watched the Officer sit.

‘You were very brave, Sam.’ Was the first thing he said, and Sam felt his heart clench. The monitor beeped slightly, warning him that his heart rate was increasing, but all Sam could think about was the way he screamed and begged. That wasn’t bravery, that was stupidity. From what he had researched about sociopaths and psychopaths, many enjoyed the suffering of others. Sam should have stayed quiet.

‘I see you disagree with me.’ The Detective stated, and Sam was surprised. The nurses and Doctors kept telling him the same thing, how he was so brave, how he did so well. Sam hadn't said anything, let them poke and prod and take bloods from him, trying to tell him that he was being so GOOD. Sam didn’t feel good. In fact, he felt the very opposite.

‘They tell me he had two broken fingers and a bruised eye.’ The Detective began, and Sam momentarily forgot that he had been the one to do that. Of course, Sam had been strong at the beginning. Had tried to fight him.

‘I know you may not feel like talking at the moment, but we could do with some answers. Just nods and shakes, that’s alright, just so we can see what happened.’ Sam didn’t think he could do that, but he gave a brief nod anyway. He thought back to the other children, to that little girl that he started cutting, and decided he had to pretend to be strong for a little while.

‘Did you recognise the man that hurt you?’ Sam shook his head. He had never seen the man before, didn’t recognise him. The Clown outfit would have suggested he worked there, but Sam hadn't seen him before. He spent a lot of time at Plucky’s, he would have recognised him. The Detective gave a brief nod, before continuing.

‘And he had a gun and knife, yes?’ Sam thought back to the standard 9mm gun that the man had carried, the six-inch blade knife that appeared to be out of a kitchen set. He looked across to the Detective, who got the idea, and handed him a notepad. He wrote those two things down, then looked up.

‘Could you describe the man that hurt you? It’s for…’ Sam didn’t need to hear the rest, already writing down everything he had got from his mental evaluation. It was so that, in court, they could cross-reference to prove that the man who had been shot was the same one who had taken the thirteen children hostage. He wrote down everything he had, then looked back up.

‘Are all of your injuries from him?’ Sam paused, thinking back to the way he had rubbed his wrists raw trying to escape. He wrote this down.

‘You’ve done really well, Sam, I just need one more answer. Did the man… did he touch you in anyway that could be considered sexual?’ His monitor was beeping again, really loudly now, and Sam could see a Nurse hovering outside the doorway. The question had an obvious answer, considering that this Officer was the one who pulled the guy out of Sam, but they had to ask. Sam knew that this was considered his version of events, that it could be used in a report. His hand was shaking badly as he tried to write, just three letters, before he shut the pad and put the lid on the pen.

‘Thank you Sam. Would it be alright if I came to visit you tomorrow? I might bring food with me, fancy something nice?’ The Officer would know he wouldn’t be allowed solid foods for two weeks, so Sam looked up. Despite being a Cop, he looked friendly, and he had been the one to rescue Sam. Not his Dad, and not Dean, who had been the ones to leave him there. This man, who he had never met, shot a man to save him.

Sam nodded his head, and the Detective gave him a smile.

‘Your brother and Dad will be coming in now.’ Sam’s smile faded, and he looked back to the window. He didn’t want to speak to them, didn’t want them to know what had happened. He didn’t need them to tell Sam how he should have been a better Hunter.

**

‘I’m sorry, what?’ John said, even though he knew he had heard right. The Doctor gave a sympathetic look, leaning forwards and placing his hands on the desk. John suddenly wished he hadn't asked.

‘Your son was sexually assaulted.’ The Doctor repeated, and John just stared at him. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to respond to that, he didn’t know what to say.

‘We’ve had to put three dissolvable stitches into the rectum to repair tears, and have sent bloods off for STI and HIV test…’

‘Just stop, okay? Stop.’ John snapped, placing his head in his hands. This wasn’t happening. It was just a bad dream, Sam was fine. He hadn't left his youngest son in the hands of a paedophile. He hadn't done that, John didn’t do that.

‘I understand that it’s hard, especially for fathers, to hear these sort of things. Is Sam’s mother in the picture?’ John was still too busy listening to the words sexually assaulted to even think about what the Doctor had just said, so he wasn’t surprised when Dean answered.

‘No, Mom died when Sammy was a baby.’ Dean stated, while John twiddled his thumbs, pressing down into his skin. He had left Sam in that place, hadn't taken him on the Hunt. And because of that, his son was now going to have to spend the next three weeks in hospital. He’d need physical therapy to repair the damage done to his left leg. He hadn't spoken since he’d been brought in. And he’d been…

‘Are there any female figures in the family? Friends?’ The Doctor asked Dean, accepting that John wasn’t going to answer.

‘No, we don’t have much family. We’ve got an Uncle that Sammy speaks to…’ Bobby. That was a good idea, John thought. Bobby would know what to do, what to say to Sam. He’d always been better with him.

‘That’s better than nothing. Sam may not wish to speak to you about the event, not to begin with. It is very common for rape victims to blame themselves for what happened, so please be aware that this may happen. I have leaflets,’ The Doctor was handing something across to Dean, which his son accepted with shaky hands, ‘That will explain everything, and if you have any questions, there are help lines. We’ve told Sam the same thing, although he didn’t accept them.’ Sounded like his son, John thought sadly.

They were led from the room, just in time to see the Detective walking out. He tipped his head to John, who was still numb with the revelation of what happened to Sam.

‘Doctor.’ He said aloud, and Dr Alex nodded.

‘Did he speak to you?’ The Doctor asked, and John looked through the blinds to his son. He couldn’t see a lot, just the image of Sam lying in the bed.

‘No. But that’s common in victims of trauma. Especially of this nature.’ The sentence was aimed more at John and Dean, both of whom continued to the room. Dean went first, straight to his brother’s side, a bright smile on his face.

‘Hey Sammy, how’re you feeling?’ The boy didn’t reply, but Dean didn’t seem deterred, ‘They giving you the good stuff?’ John just stared at the two, felt the guilt crushing him, and left the room. He just couldn’t stand it.

**

Sam watched his father walk out. He didn’t cry, even though he wanted to. John couldn’t even look at him. That was how badly he failed, his own father couldn’t stand him. Sam turned to Dean, who was talking about the recent Hunt. At least his brother could be in the same room as him. The younger couldn’t find it in him to talk, to busy remembering the last time he did, but he could listen. And Dean was happy to talk, throughout the evening, until the Nurse came in and told him visiting hours were over.

Dean nodded, standing slowly and turning to Sam. His hand quickly brushed through his hair, just softly to avoid the bump on the side, and he smiled down at him.

‘Night, Sammy. I’ll be back first thing, I promise.’ His brother turned, shoulders sagging, and left the room. Sam watched him go, tears filling his eyes as he wished he could call out for him to come back. He wanted Dean, didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, but Dean didn’t hear him.

_Dean, don’t leave me_

The Nurse came in, shutting his blinds and taking his obs. She was talking to him, but Sam was too busy turning to the side, squeezing his eyes shut to try and forget the pain. His eyes focused on the monitor that was measuring his heartbeat, and he fell asleep with the steady beeping soothing him.

**

It was day four when something changed. For four days, Sam sat in his hospital bed and listened to Dean. He listened to the Detective, who visited every day. In fact, the time when Detective Rosalind came was probably his favourite. Someone who expected him to be a normal twelve-year-old boy, rather than a future Hunter. Which was why, on the fourth day, when the Nurses came in and told him it was time for physical therapy, he declined Dean or John’s help.

‘Are you sure? You don’t want your brother or father?’ Sam shook his head firmly, he didn’t need them seeing just how weak he had become, how he had failed to defend himself. He didn’t need them to see the bruises and the cuts and worse, the word carved into his stomach that only the Detective and the Nurses and Doctor had seen. He couldn’t have them see that, not ever.

The Nurse paused, turning to him slowly.

‘Would you prefer Detective Rosalind?’ Sam stared at her, not even aware that that was an option, but she was serious. He nodded slowly, and she smiled at him.

‘That can be arranged.’

**

The Detective was walking down the corridor when he saw John Winchester and Dean, the two of them standing next to the Doctor. They both appeared confused, so the Detective walked across to see them.

‘Good morning, Mr Winchester, Dean.’ He smiled at the younger of the two, who just stared back at him. John turned, then looked back to the Doctor, an angry look on his face. It didn’t take Rosalind long to figure out it must have been something he had done.

‘What’s the issue?’ He asked, looking to Dr Alex, who looked awkward.

‘Sam requested you for today’s physical therapy.’ Rosalind wasn’t surprised. Most victims grew closer to those that didn’t expect anything of them, and from what he could tell about John Winchester, he expected a lot. Plus, Sam trusted the Detective.

‘I’ll take him down.’ Rosalind stated, moving away from the trio and to Sam’s room. The boy looked up, no expression on his face, but Rosalind didn’t mind. He had grown quite attached to the young boy.

**

Sam was walking on the treadmill, Anthony Rosalind by his side as he tried to walk. He didn’t know that the mirror was in fact a one-way mirror, and that his father and brother were watching as he failed to keep himself upright.

‘Steady, Sam.’ Sam ignored him, trying to walk faster, despite the pain throbbing in his leg. It was his fault, he had got in this mess not being strong enough, and he deserved this. He deserved worse. The Detective was staring at him, but Sam was determined. He walked faster, sweat beading and drenching the awful hospital gown he was wearing. His ass hurt, but that wasn’t something he wanted to think about, so he ignored it.

‘Sam.’ Tony stated, warning him to stop, but Sam didn’t. He was angry, really angry, when his legs gave way, and arms caught him. Tony cut the machine off, arms wrapping around Sam’s body as he was lowered to the floor, the Detective looking at him.

‘You can’t do this to yourself, Sam. You’ll hurt yourself.’ Sam just looked at the floor, not wanting to see the look in his eyes. Pity, or disappointment.

‘You know, when I first joined the forces, nobody would let me work. They didn’t want me there.’ He lifted Sam into the chair, wheeling him from the room and in the direction of his hospital bed.

‘Something about being born Emily Rosalind, I believe.’ Tony stated, and Sam cocked his head to look at the Detective. Tony looked down at him, but Sam merely looked back in front. It wasn’t as big of a surprise as it may have been, although Tony Rosalind looked like a man, some things had been odd. He was tall, around 5ft11, but that was a height a female could reach. He didn’t have any facial hair, not even any stubble. He wasn’t muscular, more lithe, and Sam now understood it wasn’t because of lack of trying, it was due to a build.

Ultimately, Sam didn’t care. Tony Rosalind had saved him, and so what did it matter if he’d been born in the wrong body?

**

‘Good morning, Sam.’ Tony came into the room, handing him a smoothie. It was day twelve, and Sam had been getting better with his leg. A lot quicker than average. The Detective had learnt a lot, that John Winchester hadn't spoken to his son since the accident, that Dean was Sam’s world. The boy was smart, he could complete crosswords that had Tony struggling for hours. The boy spent hours in the physical therapy room, running on the treadmill or using the weights.

‘M-morning.’ Sam stuttered, but Tony didn’t show shock. Sam had spoken, yes, but that didn’t mean everything was alright. He just smiled, taking a seat on the side and opening his bag up. He took out the book on serial killers, and Sam’s face lit up.

‘I thought you might enjoy that.’ He said with a smile, handing the book across. Sam looked up, like he had never received a gift before, and grinned.

‘T-thanks.’

‘You ever fancy being a Detective? I think you’d be good at it.’ Tony admitted, knowing it was true. The boy was smart, he’d make a great cop, especially with the abilities he had shown. The memory he had, the recollection of the event and description of the man that had attacked him…

‘Wanted to be a lawyer.’ He said, and the Detective gave a nod. That made sense, Sam would make a good lawyer.

‘Feeling any better?’ Tony asked, and Sam looked up at him.

‘A little. Solid foods soon.’ The boy sucked down the mango smoothie, and the Detective bit back a chuckle. It was one of the things he’d grown to love about Sam Winchester, his humour. Although the boy didn’t talk, his face was very emotional, and Dean had told him he called them “bitchfaces”. Tony had to agree.

‘I’ll bring you a salad.’ Tony offered, and Sam attempted a weak laugh.

**

Sam couldn’t talk to Dean and John. He just couldn’t. He knew that they knew he was talking to Tony, but Sam couldn’t talk to them. It didn’t matter how hard he tried, how much he wanted to talk to Dean, the words just wouldn’t come out. He never saw John, not alone, and his father didn’t try and talk. Sam supposed his father still blamed him for what happened.

‘Steady.’ He was being washed, and it was uncomfortable. He didn’t talk to the nurses, not as they washed over the words on his torso, or brushed his hair. Sam was helped into clothes ready for today’s training session, sweatpants and a shirt, and Sam was excited. It was his fifteenth day at the hospital, he was going to Bobby’s soon, according to Dean.

Back in his room, he was surprised to find the Doctor. He didn’t need to look to know that John and Dean were outside the room, listening to whatever Doctor Alex had come to say. Sam studied him, gave a brief nod, then walked across to his bed. His serial killer book was on the side, he was half-way through, and he was thankful for the Detective. He’d been a lifesaver.

‘Good afternoon, Sam. How are you feeling?’ Sam hadn't spoken to the Doctor either, but he risked a smile in his direction. The Doctor looked pleased, taking a seat on the table at the end.

‘We have the results from the HIV and STI tests, they came back negative.’ A mixture of emotions, pleased that he wasn’t going to have to carry around what had happened to him, but annoyed that the Doctor had so openly stated it. The thought of what happened, the very idea of the man touching him… It made his stomach churn in horror.

‘Have you thought any more of talking to one of our Rape guidance Counsellors?’ Sam flinched at the word, looking out across the carpark rather than staring at the Doctor. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially not someone he’d never met. The Doctor sighed, disappointment clear, and left the room.

**

Tony probably should have told Sam that his brother and father watched the sessions. But he didn’t, and so Sam was happy talking to him. The Detective decided today was the day to push slightly, to see if he could help Sam break out of his shell.

‘The Doctor talked to you about the counsellor?’ He asked as Sam hit the punching bag. The boy’s form was good, he had evidently been trained long before this. Probably explained the injuries of Frank Spencer, the man that had hurt him.

‘I don’t want one.’ Sam snapped back, hitting the bag. Tony looked up at him from his position on the bench, trying to understand the boy’s hesitance.

‘Any reason why?’

‘I don’t need to talk about it.’ He stated, and Tony utterly disagreed. He didn’t say that aloud though, it would push everything away that he was trying to achieve.

‘Would you, if I asked?’ Sam stopped punching the bag, caught it as it swung, then looked to him. His hazel eyes were filled with worry, but still trusting.

‘You were there. You saw it.’ True, the Detective had seen a man with a gun pressing against a boy’s temple, and had shot him. He’d only then realised that he’d shot the man while he was inside the boy.

‘I saw very little. I shot the man because he had a gun pressed to your temple.’ Sam shivered slightly, before walking across to the treadmill. Tony didn’t bother moving, he knew Sam would stop if he had to. The boy wasn’t as angry as he had been for the first couple of sessions.

‘It hurt.’ Sam finally said, and Tony smiled softly. This was progress.

‘What part?’ He asked, standing up.

‘All of it.’ Sam answered, but Tony knew that wasn’t what he wanted to say. He waited, knowing when he was ready, Sam would talk. It took roughly two and a half minutes before the boy spoke.

‘I didn’t mind the cutting. Or the bruising. I could recover from those.’ Tony hummed in agreement, leaning on the treadmill as the boy ran. He had a good frame, good time, and good stamina. He had no doubt that the boy trained in his personal life.

‘I didn’t know how to handle the other bit.’ Other bit, rather than the four letter word that Sam wouldn’t use. Better than nothing.

‘Because you knew you could fight him, but you didn’t know how to fight him after that?’ He asked, and Sam nodded. Good, Tony thought, he was starting to speak.

‘I wasn’t supposed to make a sound.’ Sam said, and Tony passed him the water bottle.

‘Why?’

‘Sociopaths and psychopaths have a tendency to find pleasure in the sounds of victims, statistically around 83% of the time.’ That made him grin, the boy was a walking encyclopaedia.

‘Did your Dad teach you how to fight?’

‘And Dean. Yeah.’ That was evidently too many personal questions, because Sam asked him one in return.

‘When did you realise you were Tony, not Emily?’ They hadn't spoke about it explicitly, but Tony didn’t mind. The boy was curious, that was okay.

‘I always knew. I just didn’t start the change until I was thirteen.’ Sam studied him, before nodding. Tony knew he shouldn’t be surprised by how accepting Sam Winchester was, but it still did surprise him. The boy always did, he was phenomenal. He climbed of the treadmill, walking to the middle of the room and stretching.

‘So, any girls you’ve got your eye on at school?’ Sam snorted with laughter, looking up with a smirk.

‘That’s my brother, not me.’ So, Dean Winchester was a flirt. Made sense, the older brother was charming. Most of the Nurses, especially the younger ones, seemed to gravitate around him, even though he was only sixteen. He had that kind of charm.

‘Surely you’ve got a crush. A pretty girl? Smart and nerdy, I would presume.’ Something flashed across the boy’s face, enough to know he was on the right track. Tony took a chance, hoping that John Winchester wouldn’t do anything stupid if this was what Tony thought it was.

‘Boys?’ Sam paused his stretching, looked up to Tony. The Detective stood, gesturing for the boy to start throwing punches. This had only started yesterday, but Rosalind had to be quick if he was to sidestep the boy’s throws.

‘His name was Max. He was pretty cute, he liked maths. And science.’ Of course he did. Tony grinned, ducking one of the punches and blocking the second.

‘Your brother know?’ Sam shook his head, kicking out and throwing a punch. The Detective narrowly blocked it, then threw his own, which Sam caught and twisted. He was good, better than most men, let alone for a kid his height and age.

‘Alright, I quit.’ Tony pulled back, the boy was drenched, and he walked across to the spare shirt. Usually, he got changed in the bathroom, but he didn’t bother this time. After all, as far as Sam knew, it was just the two of them in the room. Tony had seen the cuts before. Still, it was shocking to see the yellow-bruised skin of the boy, and as he turned, the carved skin that shaped the word SLUT onto his stomach. They would be there forever, Tony thought sadly.

Sam caught him staring, glanced down to his stomach and traced the letters cautiously.

‘Did it hurt?’ Tony asked, and Sam looked up in surprise. His eyes were showing hurt, but Sam did something quite shocking. Something that Rosalind would call Sam’s defining healing moment.

‘Not as much as the rape.’ He admitted, shoving the shirt down. Tony processed the words, then offered out his arm.

‘C’mere, Sam.’ Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes, and Tony pulled him in for a hug. So what, if the boy was crying into his shirt. It didn’t mean Sam wasn’t healing. 


	2. Moving forwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The (very late) second chapter, enjoy!

Sam shifted in the hospital bed, uncomfortable. It was three days until he could leave, which was good, because he had finished his serial killer book. The Detective was working a new case, so couldn’t be around as much, and so Sam had a big decision to make. Ultimately, he already knew what he was going to do.

‘Morning Sammy.’ Dean walked in, just like he did every day, with a burger in hand. The smell of extra onions drifted across, and Sam smiled slightly. Trust Dean not to listen to the Nurses telling him he couldn’t bring burgers onto the ward.

‘It’s Sam.’ The boy blurted, and Dean almost dropped the burger. His head shot up, green eyes staring at him, and then the brightest smile spread across his face. Sam smiled back, and Dean came to sit on the side of the bed.

‘Feeling okay?’ His brother asked, not arguing as Sam stole the burger and took a bite. Too many onions, but he didn’t really mind, snacking down happily.

‘Better. Will you… help me with my session this afternoon?’ Dean’s smile couldn’t possibly grow any wider, Sam thought, and his brother nodded like an over-excited puppy. That was nice, he thought, settling back into the sheets as Dean chatted away. At least they didn’t expect too much of him.

**

The Detective found Sam in his room, curled up on the floor. That was the first suggestion that something was wrong. The second was the blood, and he felt his heart stop, the moment shattering as he shouted for help. Diving onto the floor was uncomfortable, knees hitting the solid floor, but that didn’t matter. Rolling Sam gently, he found his eyes drifting to the cuts on his stomach, which were bleeding again. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why, the blood was still under the boy’s fingernails, and Tony flinched at the implications.

He refused to leave the room, watched as they cleaned Sam up, laced him with pain meds and sedated him, hooking him back up to the machines that Sam hated. Once they had finished, the Detective set about cleaning the room, ignoring the fact the Nurses stated they could do it. The blood, the grapes that had been thrown across the floor, the flowers that were shredded. It was only then that Tony noticed the book, perfectly placed on the side, bookmark still in place.

He cried.

**

Sam flicked his eyes open, a low pain aching in his stomach, before he remembered the moments before his sleep. Another leaflet, more soft words, and Sam had flipped. One moment, he was standing in the hospital room, the next he had been back in that place with the man holding him down, and Sam hadn't hesitated. Kicked, cried, ripped at his skin until the pain in his heart had been less than the physical pain.

There were three people in his room. Dean, slumped over his knees, hair messy and fingers laced with his own. His Dad, lying over the couch on the far side, a weary look on his face. And finally, the Detective, very much awake, looking right at him. Sam didn’t know how to react, whether he should feel guilty, but then Tony was smiling at him softly.

‘How are you feeling?’ He murmured, and Sam shrugged, the gesture waking Dean. His brother startled, then looked straight at him, and he saw the conflicting emotions cross his expression. He settled with relief, squeezing Sam’s hand, and Sam smiled back at him. The moment was broken by John’s phone ringing, the Hunter sitting up quickly, looking to the scene in front, then grabbing his phone.

‘Bobby?’ Sam watched him leave the room, the same stab in his gut at his father not talking to him, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned back to Dean, who was wearing his typical big-brother face, although his eyes were softer than normal.

‘Tired. Hungry.’ Sam replied, and was surprised at how true that was. His appetite hadn't been great, Dean and Tony and the Nurses had been nagging him to eat more, but Sam couldn’t face it. But now, his stomach rumbled, Dean laughing with a joy that was infectious, Sam risking a small chuckle himself.

‘I’ll grab you some food. Want anything?’ Dean looked to Tony, who politely declined, and Dean hesitated only momentarily before leaving. Silence descended, before Tony spoke.

‘You shouldn’t doubt yourself, Sam. They both love you.’ He knew he shouldn’t, but he scoffed, rolled his eyes and watched Tony’s expression darken.

‘Sam, they do. Both of them. You want me to prove it to you?’ Sam looked to the Detective, the man that had saved his life, and wondered if he was telling the truth. If John really did love him still, even though Sam had failed to do something as simple as defeat a guy, a human. He found himself nodding, Tony calling for a wheelchair, and the two of them heading in the direction of the gym. But instead of going to the room, he wheeled him round to a side door, opening it.

It took a few seconds for Sam to process what he was seeing. The room had a glass wall, looking into the gym, and Sam realised what it meant. That those times he had been with Tony, Dean and John had been there. To begin with, anger flooded his system, but then he paused. If they had heard what he said, if they had listened to everything he told Tony, then they would have been standing in here. Watching over him. Making sure he was getting better. They hadn't abandoned him when they saw how weak he was, they hadn't gotten angry when he’d mentioned having a crush on a guy. Nothing.

‘You see it now?’ Tony inquired gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. Sam looked up, found himself smiling, wondering why his cheeks were damp as he did so. Arms wrapped around him, gentle yet reassuring, and Sam finally understood.

**

John had never felt more lost, didn’t know how to comfort Sam. How could the boy even manage to look at him, when he had left his son for dead? This was all his fault, John thought, beating himself up as he walked back through the Hospital. He gave a nod to the Detective on the way towards Sam’s room, opening the door and stopping when he found it empty apart from Sam. Dean had gone, and now John was left alone, stuck with a son that had to hate him.

‘Dad?’ He was pretty sure he rocked backwards, the word shocking him more than anything. Sam hadn't spoken to him, not since the accident, yet one word was enough for John to have tears in his eyes.

‘Sammy.’ He breathed it out, steadily walking across, and Sam shifted across the bed to make room for him. He knew he was testing his luck, sitting down on the edge of the bed, wanting to reassure and comfort and tell his boy that everything would be okay, that he was going to stop him from ever being hurt again. The thought of the word on Sam’s stomach, proof that John had failed, had a tear running down his cheek.

But just like that, Sam was curling around him, reaching out in a way that hadn't happened since Sam was tiny. It had always been Dean’s arms he had fell into, Dean he listened to. Yet now, Sam lay against him, and John wrapped his youngest up in his arms, buried his nose into the thick “girl-hair”, as Dean called it, and found himself smiling.

‘It’s alright, Sammy. Everything’s going to be okay.’ And that was a promise, John would make sure of it.


End file.
